


one day more

by SinSmith



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Attempt at Humor, Dorks in Love, Fillory, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Fluffy Ending, Gay Sex, Gratuitous Smut, Inappropriate Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Shameless Smut, Sub Eliot Waugh, Top Quentin Coldwater, queliot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 17:39:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16330601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinSmith/pseuds/SinSmith
Summary: “Listen… remember that promise I made you, when you thought you were going to get kicked out of Brakebills?”“... that you’d find me and seduce me and something something life retain its sparkle for years to come?”“Yes, good. Shh. That one. Clearly you remember. I… ahem.” He frowned. This is hard. Why is this so hard? Come on, Eliot. Ask the pretty boy to put his cock in your mouth. For Fillory. “I… would like to…. It would be a good time, I think, to redeem that voucher? … offer?”“Because you … can now. Because the magic is falling apart.”“Cleeeeever boy.”Quentin looked conflicted; there was battle going on behind his eyes, a verifiable storm of uncertainty and new, previously unconsidered options. “So this- you. …. You came up here to seduce me.” It’s almost an accusation. Almost. Mostly just surprised.“Ah… not… /only/ to seduce you?” Eliot tried, his voice small, eyes distant as he kept the slightest hint of a smile off his mouth. “.... there was also wine.”





	one day more

**Author's Note:**

> what is even tense, I'm so sorry

“Are you happy?”

Sweat dripped down Quentin’s brow, into his eye, and he tossed back his damp bangs with annoyance as his ragged, heavy breathing pushed at them. Drawing hair into his mouth, sweat pooled on his back and trailing down his neck. Gathering under the thick training jacket he wore. His hand was firm but shaky around the hilt of the too-heavy rapier he was wielding. 

“What?” Lame. Exasperated. He dropped his blade on the ground, his dwarven instructor picking it up and quickly scuttling off the balcony, getting up from where he’s kneeling and catching his breath, his lip bleeding just a little from where a gauntleted fist had hit his mouth. He was bleeding and filthy and the world was ending and magic was leaving it. And then there was Eliot. Sauntering out onto the appropriately dramatic sunset-lit patio of castle Whitespire, a glass of some mediocre semblance of wine in his long, regal fingers. Eliot looked almost conciliatory.

“I know, I know. Fillory is collapsing, etcetera etcetera, pick your battles, Eliot- but really. I want to know. Are you happy?”

“I- what?” Quentin repeated, hard to articulate anything around the pounding of his chest, the light-headed feeling that came from drilling sword-fighting while breathing in a small amount of opium constantly in the spires of a castle coming back with a vengeance. “I- what a stupid question, I-” He felt the lies buzzing around his tongue like bees, but he swallowed them down. He ignored the sting of truth as he finally spat out, “No. No, I’m not. Magic is falling apart and there’s nothing we can do. I feel, helpless.”

“Yessss, right. The magic falling apart. It’s. It’s terrible. No, no really, I’m being sincere.” He said, not even the slightest bit sincere. Well. Maybe the slightest bit. 

Quentin took the opportunity to look at him, really look at him. Eliot was fluttering like a bird, little nervous hand gestures that he hid with drinking more heavily. It wasn’t even noon and he was already half-drunk, silken tunic askew over one shoulder. It was strange but he seemed… anxious. And freer, somehow; a light in his dark eyes that Quentin hadn’t seen in a very, very long time. Eliot continued. 

“Don’t give me that look. We /obviously/ have to fix it. But there are, you know. Benefits. To. Magic not… being as strong as it once was…” Eliot gave Quentin an exceptionally pointed look, dark eyes peering at him as he sipped his Adult Beverage ™ and kept his gaze on Q over the edge of the glass. When Quentin gave him a hapless, half-soaked shrug of incredulity, Eliot felt rather than attempted his eyes rolling back in his head. 

“You know. For some of us. Under the effects of. Magical… encumbrances… as it were.”

Still nothing. Blank. Soft mouth half parted and brows furrowed in a look that’s part Eeyore, part James Dean. It was adorable and entirely unfair. 

“Magical… spousal…. Encumbrances?” He tried, one last, desperate time. It was not a suave seduction, by any means, this awkward jerky reveal; but then again it’s never been exactly story book with them. Despite you know. The talking animals and kings and heroics and all. Understanding, or at least the beginning of it, washed over Quentin’s face like the dawn over the mountains, which is to say slowly and full of lingering shadows. 

Eliot let out a careful breath, feeling emotions in his eyes that he simply did want Quentin to be privy to. So instead he wandered over to the balcony. It was the real deal, this; the creamy marble columns and the elaborate carvings, the peacock walking along the railing, the sunset tones painting everything peach. It was like sinking into a peachtini. Except he didn’t feel like vomiting. He leaned against the column, looking out over the view. Waiting for Quentin to join him. 

A minute passed, then another. “Really Quentin.” His tone was utterly exasperated. “What about this situation implied ‘stare at me like a lovesick puppydog’ rather than ‘join me at the poetically lit sunset balcony overlooking our kingdom, please, Simba.’” Quentin’s dour expression lightened just a touch, and Eliot settled into himself with a satisfied jaunt of his shoulders as the maudlin young man dropped his fencing vest and walked over to the railing. Eliot took a moment then slowly stepped behind him, framing Quentin with his body; he smelled like sweat and musk, and Eliot had never been more glad. His eyes were closed and he just savored the scent; the freedom to be so close, to smell, to taste, without repercussions- 

“Eliot…?”

“... yes, Simba?”

“Did you just… smell me…?”

“I- ah. …. Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Behold, everything the light touches is our kingdom.” There is a pause, and then the High King elbows him. Through gritted teeth, “Ask me about the shadowy place.”

“Uh. What’s that shadowy place?”

“That, Simba, is Loria. And you must never go there. Because they want Fillory-”

Eliot was about to finish it with some insult about their neighbors to the north, but Quentin had turned around within his long reach; it’s a skillful maneuver, considering how close together they are. Front to front now, it’s almost too intimate. His eyes were on his face, looking up, damned overly contrite. “They aren’t the only ones.”

“That… want Fillory?”

“Mm. Mhm. I don’t want to lose it.” There was another pause. Quentin ducked his head, long brown hair tugged by the wind, in front of his face. His expression was so damned earnest and hurt. The Little Match Boy. “I don’t want to lose… this.” The tone went up at the end, like it’s almost a question, like he’s not quite certain. It very nearly shattered Eliot apart. 

“I don’t want to lose this either.” His arms wrapped around Quentin of their own accord, holding him, reassuring him. Because he couldn't just stand there and watch him fall apart. “Listen… remember that promise I made you, when you thought you were going to get kicked out of Brakebills?”

“... that you’d find me and seduce me and something something life retain its sparkle for years to come?”

“Yes, good. Shh. That one. Clearly you remember. I… ahem.” He frowned. This is hard. Why is this so hard? Come on, Eliot. Ask the pretty boy to put his cock in your mouth. For Fillory. “I… would like to…. It would be a good time, I think, to redeem that voucher? … offer?” 

“Because you … can now. Because the magic is falling apart.” 

“Cleeeeever boy.”

Quentin looked conflicted; there was battle going on behind his eyes, a verifiable storm of uncertainty and new, previously unconsidered options. “So this- you. …. You came up here to seduce me.” It’s almost an accusation. Almost. Mostly just surprised.

“Ah… not… /only/ to seduce you?” Eliot tried, his voice small, eyes distant as he kept the slightest hint of a smile off his mouth. “.... there was also wine.”

It seemed to calm Quentin, diffuse the tension; the easy comfort of Eliot’s arms around him was hard to resist, the thrum of that abused heart against the man’s ribs beneath his ear. When he lifted his head, Eliot’s mouth was just a few inches above his; his fingers tangled in the front of his doublet and then they were kissing. The first was just a press of mouth against mouth, slow, curious; but almost immediately it’s more than that, Eliot’s hands pressing into his back. It’s easy; it’s so goddamn easy Quentin can’t believe they only drunkenly stumbled into this once. That they haven’t been doing this for years. Wonders, vaguely, if there was some lifetime where he spent a thousand hours kissing Eliot, his crooked mouth and tasting his breath, rather than just two frantic evenings he can’t quite hold onto. 

Because this will be frantic. He can tell the moment Eliot touches him; the way they devour each other like starving men. And Eliot was, he realizes, starved for it. He’s struck again by his own naivety; like Eliot isn’t a person, a person who has been stuck to someone of his less-prefered gender… someone he only barely likes. God, Quentin curses himself. “I’m so selfish…” He murmurs against Elliot’s lips, sucking at the other’s lower lip until it bruises. 

“Mmm? Selfish? I… like that. In a man.” Gross, Eliot- this is Quentin. Lose the act. “Sorry. Cutting the crap. Old habits die hard. You’re hot. Be selfish.” His hands find Quentin’s sides, and he pushes him back against the nearest column; their eyes meet for just a moment. Silent permission asked for, silent permission given. And then, just like that, the High King drops to his knees. 

Long, nimble fingers unhook his belt like it’s a prize, tugging it open and letting the leather and metal clank onto the marble floor. He takes Quentin’s hand and, with a wry crooked twist of his mouth, guides Quentin’s hand to the front of his tunic. The touch is intimate, cradling his fingers, guiding him; together they push up the edge of embroidered fabric, baring the soft lines of his stomach. Eliot glances up at him; his shoulders are back against the wall, hips angled forward, and there is the beginning of a flush blooming up his pale neck as he bares himself for his king. “Just. Be a dear.” 

The shy magician doesn’t protest, just holds the tunic up for Eliot’s hungry eyes, drinking in the look of shameless desire on the King’s face; those dark eyes blown wide with wanting. “Eliot…” Quentin exhales, just overwhelmed by the million scenarios and missed signs flashing through his head like wildfire. “Quentin. Stay with me. Just, ah. Tell me you trust me.” “I trust you.” “Good.”

Eliot slides the fabric down Quentin’s hips, deliberate and slow, as his mouth presses against the soft lines of Quentin’s stomach. The boy mewls at just the line of kisses, more intense as he works his way down his navel, and the noise alights something predatory sleeping within Eliot. He lets out a low, rumbling breath through his nose as he brushes his lips against the front of his pants, inhaling the musk and arousal like it’s a Hermes cologne. Nimble fingers guide the cloth away, baring his cock to the cool evening air; the High King licks his lips, examining the skin laid before. Pretty, dripping precum, curved just so, perfect. He has to stop himself from smiling (boys don’t like it when you see their dicks and laugh, in his experience) but Quentin shudders just the same, and its enough to draw his gaze upward.   
Quentin is breathless, shoulders back against the column, fingers balled around the fabric of his tunic, face half hidden behind his hand. He is a picture of yearning. Eliot purrs and licks his lips, then slides forward to drag his tongue along the side of his length.

It's better, so so much better than he imagined. And he had imagined, frequently and with vigor. But it doesn’t compare to the reality of the thing; hard and slick as he closes his mouth around him, tasting of skin and precum and Quentin. The fluttery little noises that Quentin makes aren’t half bad, either. Eliot kneels before him, a supplicant, drawing and dragging his mouth over his length, starting into a slow and expert rhythm. God he’d missed this. He slaps Quentin’s ass for good measure, guiding him into it and Quentin, angel, actually lets out a breathy laugh before tangling his fingers in Eliot’s curls.

He cards through Eliot’s hair once, roughly, and then repeats the gesture; like he’s savoring it. Like he’s always dreamt of touching him like this. Its a moment of tenderness before he yields to Eliot’s insistence, rocking his hips into the wet heat of Eliot’s mouth. Dark lashes fall shut, his mouth a used pink as the other magician fucks forward, harder and rougher at his own insistence. And he loves it, loves the drag and the threat of choking, swallowing cock deep into his throat. And not just anyone’s, but Quentin’s; hearing him slowly coming undone above him is pure ambrosia. 

Ambrosia? God he really needed to get laid more often. 

He slowly lifted his gaze to Quentin, watching him as he swallowed down his length; and god was he a pretty sight. Shirt held up in one hand, knuckles white, the other hand cupping Eliot’s cheek. His face was flushed and glazed, mouth open as he tried to choke back his moans, brows twisted upward in that expression just before pleasure becomes pain. He wasn’t beautiful, none of them were, but he was loving this and he was good and his thumb brushed Eliot’s cheek like he was something precious and it was enough. 

The taller boy pulled off with a slick pop, licking clean the line of saliva trailing from his lip to the head of Quentin’s length. There was just a moment of indignance from the other boy before Eliot laughed. “Shhhh, shhh shh. There now. Ready for the main course? That was just a side-dish, Q.” The High King drew to his full height again, caught off guard when Quentin dragged him in for a kiss; their mouths met, hot and needy and hungry. One hand on Quentin’s, he broke the kiss and drew him over to the balcony. 

“Take me for a ride, Quentin?” Slowly he crawled onto a low divan, looking over his shoulder at Quentin. It was meant to feel sexy, but the flush on his cheek nearly gave him away. He wanted it so badly, the fear of rejection was tangible. And the man’s hesitation didn’t make it easier. He stood there, dick in hand, just watching Eliot. “I want to. God, I want to.” He repeated, breathy, barely in control of himself. “But don’t we need-....” 

“Lube? Q, please. There’s a spell for that. Honestly, you really missed out on that queer-craft and wizardry scene at Brakebills…” He teased, smirking back at him. “Trust me. Just come over here. And… undress me, maybe.” Those words almost trembled as Eliot said them, such fluctuation between desire and nerves. Q wanted him, he could tell, but it was terrifying. They weren’t drunk. They couldn’t pretend tomorrow this hadn’t happened. He intended to try, of course, what’s a bit of foreplay between friends? But he doubted it would work. Not this time. 

But hands smoothed over his hips, tracing the line of smooth bare skin just above his waistband; then Quentin was against his ass, warm and tangible, and reaching around him to untie the velvet fabric and slide them down. Quentin was nervous, it was visible, and he wanted Eliot so badly; it had been so long though, since that ill-advised threesome he barely remembered. Still, he leaned down, pushing the King’s shirt up his back, tracing the lines of his body and pressing a kiss to his exposed hip. Eliot had dimples in his lower back, and Quentin couldn’t believe he’d never noticed before. 

“Ready?” Eliot lifted one long hand, his elegant fingers twisting into a few different shapes, the spell taking hold around them. Just enough magic for this; these little cantrips and nonsense. Poppers. Beginner level stuff. Still, Quentin found himself staring as Eliot spread himself open with one hand, slick dripping from his entrance. “Stare on your own time, Coldwater.”

It was enough to shake him out of it, kneeling behind Eliot on the divan, rubbing his hip. This was it. He took his cock in hand, rubbing it against the man’s slick entrance once, twice- enough to hear Eliot moan in eager desperation. And then he pushed inside of him, slow and hard and quaking. Eliot spread, stretched around him; dropping to his forearms on the divan and showing off the arc of his back, impossibly pale and perfect. Quentin moaned, deeply, fire in his veins where they touched; it was a painful moment that seemed to last too long, Eliot wrestling with the reality of it, the dull pain, the yearning. 

“Are you… okay?”   
“I’m so much more than okay. Quentin?”   
“Yeah?”   
“Fuck me.” 

So he did. Languid, at first, feeling every arch and tense of Eliot’s body around him like it was his own. He was so hot, and tight, the drag of pleasure as he filled him and slid back out entirely intoxicating. Quentin’s thoughts were incoherent, just focused on how good this was; how easy they fit together. Eliot rocked back against him, slow, demanding, before hooking one long leg around Quentin’s knee, tugging him closer. “Come on.”

Wrapping an arm around Eliot’s waist, Quentin thrust deeper into him; he was getting a feeling that Eliot liked this. Rough. Getting manhandled, used. He wasn’t surprised, exactly, just adapting. Like the new flavors of a spell you’ve not yet used; Sumatran instead of Latin. So Quentin held him as hard as he could; feeling how much stronger he was for years of adventures and rugged living. He bent down until he could find Eliot’s shoulder, burying his face into it as he roughly snapped his hips; thrusting into him hard. The moan it coaxed from Eliot was worth it, low and desperate, and Quentin chased that sound. 

A hard, brutal pace; pulling all the way out so that the High King whined, a needy noise, and then forcing himself all the way in, sheathed inside him. Then harder, faster; feeling the sweat forming on his friend’s skin, the slick drag and rough plunge. It was intoxicating, and he buried his face into Eliot’s neck, biting down roughly at the pale skin of his shoulder. 

“Q… Quentin… oh, fuck yes, right there….” His voice was breathless, his dark eyes shut tightly as he took everything Quentin had to offer him; one hand reached back, holding himself up, as he gripped Quentin’s hair; tugging at the brown strands. The other whimpered, and his reward was a harder pace. Needier, more animal. It didn’t surprise him, really, that they both wanted it to hurt when they fucked. Wanted to get hurt. “What’s magic without a little pain, right?”

A groan filled his ear, and Eliot laughed between his moans. It had been so long ago, that day at Brakebills. Worlds and worlds away. 

His thoughts were strangled off by a cry forced out of him; Quentin finding some new angle that made his vision go white. “O-ohhh god, Quentin please, do that- I can’t-” His words tumbled out in a needy stream, mouth parted in a desperate ‘o’ shape, curling against the divan. Quentin kept his promise with all the dedication of a magician; filling him and dragging against that sweet spot over and over again, a desperation and pleasure that was too much, too much- “I’m going to, Q….” “Yeah, I know. Come on. Give it to me.” 

 

A few more rough thrusts and Eliot’s whole body tensed, a whimpering cry from him as he arched, gripping futilely at the divan, at Quentin’s hand; he came in white spurts against the fabric, mouth parted in a desperate moan; crying out breathlessly and without words. It didn’t take long before Quentin followed suit, rocking into his body and letting out a shuddering noise as he released deep inside him; both of them collapsing down onto the divan as soon as he had finished, laying in a pile. 

Limbs sprawled out against the marble, they both heaved for breath; Quentin’s weight was crushing him but Eliot didn’t care. The boy’s head rested on his shoulder, sweat-slicked hair against his skin, and all Eliot wanted to do was lay there. It was so peaceful; the questions and madness and pain just fucked right out of his head. Pulverized. Fucked into oblivion. It was blissful quiet; aware of their bodies and the light breeze and the sunshine and nothing else. 

“... Eliot?”

“I swear to god.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“Really? Han Solo?”

“As you wish.”

“Ugh.”


End file.
